


We were strangers in the night

by caught_your_phancy



Category: Phandom/The Fantastic Foursome (YouTube RPF)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Age of Sail, Alternate Universe - Historical, Golden Age of Piracy, M/M, Minor Character Death, Period-Typical Sexism, Religious Discussion, Slow Burn, Swearing, Threats of Violence, Verbal Abuse, period-typical violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-12
Updated: 2019-01-20
Packaged: 2019-07-11 10:55:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,169
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15970895
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/caught_your_phancy/pseuds/caught_your_phancy
Summary: The one in which Dan is a snarky assassin and Phil's a British marine officer.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> For C., because I promised you a pirate story <3.
> 
> This story doesn't have an uploading schedule, sorry! 
> 
> Title from Frank Sinatra's 'Strangers in the night'. 
> 
> Disclaimer: I am not particularly well-versed in the subject of swords, sword-fighting and period-typical attire. I've done some research, but I apologize for any inaccuracies that might ensue. 
> 
> Disclaimer: Please keep in mind that the political situation in Europe and America experienced important and frequent changes throughout the 18th century. This story is set in 1711, but you may find that some conflicts have been prolonged and/or ignored altogether. This was done for plot purposes.
> 
> Disclaimer: this is a work of fiction. I don't know Dan and Phil and the characters in this story are only that: characters that I've created, sharing their names and fitting their description.
> 
> Enjoy!

“I was expecting you.”

The person behind him scoffed. “Of course you were. Tell me, what gave it away?”

Sebastian didn't answer, but nodded towards the opened envelop lying on his desk, a single black rose poking out from beneath the yellowed paper. _Imminent death._

“I should've known it would be the bloody flower," the other grumbled. “Winston could never resist the extra touch of drama. What a rubbish associate he has, yet again, proven to be.”

Sebastian spun around and leaned against his desk, palms flat on the wooden countertop. His visitor’s eyes darted to his tanned, scarred face and he smiled a mostly toothless grin in return. Whilst taking in the the stranger, Sebastian noticed that the young man’s hand rested steadily on the pommel of his smallsword, the leather sheath of which was attached to his belt.

“That looks dangerous,” Sebastian hazarded, pointing towards the man’s weapon. He grabbed a dusty glass and a bottle of watered-down rum from behind him and smirked. “Why don’t you put it aside for a moment and we’ll discuss whatever business it is that you have with me over a glass of liquor?”

The curly-haired man snorted and shook his head dismissively. A sudden gust of wind made the only window in the room fall shut with an obnoxious bang, and his nose wrinkled in disgust as a sour, putrid smell penetrated his nostrils.

“Christ, what is it with you lowlifes and cleaning? Do you use dead rats’ scent as aroma compounds or something?”

Sebastian chuckled humourlessly. The temperature in the room seemed to drop by the second. “That smell, lad, would be the one of whatever remains of the last nobody who dared to threaten me.”

The younger man’s grip on the smallsword’s hilt tightened, as did his jaw. This did not go unnoticed by Sebastian, whose hand subtly crept up towards his back pocket, where a small flintlock pistol sat. In the blink of an eye his visitor was standing in front of him, his cold weapon drawn, the sharp point of it resting uncomfortably on the older man’s bobbing adam’s apple. Sebastian’s hand fell slack to his side, and the pressure exerted by the gleaming metal on his throat lessened. His assailant’s dark brown eyes had a dangerous shimmer to them and his hands didn’t tremble in the slightest as they held the blade upright. 

This person’s skill set was most probably way out of his league, so Sebastian raised his hands in surrender, though vaguely considering spitting in the other man’s face as a form of indignant protest. He did not very much like being bested, even less by such a youthful individual.

“Really, rat?” the brown-haired man snarled. “Did you seriously think I would fall for that? You’re even dumber than I thought.” His right hand reached behind Sebastian’s back and pulled the firearm out from under the folds of the fabric of his trousers. Disbelieving, the older man stared back at him, wondering how his visitor’d managed to guess the planned trajectory of his hand so quickly. 

It came to him as suddenly as a kick to the ribs. Of course. Had Sebastian’s hands not been otherwise engaged, he would have slapped himself across the face. Hard. He’d had his back towards the other man, who had no doubt examined him thoroughly, as any other would. The bulge of the weapon (that he’d picked up as soon as he’d received the flower) in his trousers would’ve been obvious, even from the other side of the room. He glared at the stranger nonetheless, irritated by the fact that the younger man’s insult was, in a way, deserved.

His assailant took a step forward, forcing Sebastian backward. His back bumped against the desk, and as the other man continued to advance, he fell down on top of it, only avoiding landing flat on his back by breaking his fall with his elbows. The other man had followed the brusque movement and was holding the tip of his weapon against Sebastian’s throat again. The older man felt himself grow annoyed at the constant looming presence of the smallsword and sighed.

“Alright then, lad. What is it that you want?”

“You helped a man escape this country exactly two weeks ago.” It was a statement, not a question, spoken in a certain, confident tone.

“He is the son of the Queen's cousin and is rumoured to have ordered about half a dozen British privateers’ ships to capture a Spanish treasure fleet, returning from the Americas. His name is Philip Michael Lester, Earl of Lancashire.” 

Sebastian arched his eyebrows disbelievingly. “Your informants are truly something else, son.”

“I need you to tell me where you helped him disappear to.”

Sebastian blanched ever so slightly. “Sorry lad, ‘fraid I can’t tell you that. I was sworn to secrecy by the British government. You need to understand that breaking an oath like that would-”

The curly-haired man in front of him nodded once, and swung his sword in such a way that it was now resting about a milimeter from the smuggler’s left eye. Sebastian tried to lean back as far as possible, away from the sharp metal, away from the stranger with that dangerous, murderous glint in his eyes. The leaning back didn’t make anything of a difference, except for making the position in which he was even more uncomfortable. He cursed through gritted teeth.

“I wasn’t asking you for any of that bullshit, knob head,” the younger man hissed. "Now, are you going to talk, or do you want me to give you some,” (he let the point of the blade draw tiny circles in front of Sebastian’s eye) “ _motivation_ ?”

“Oh come on, kid,” Sebastian squawked. “Whatever you’re threatening to do to me won’t even be half as bad as how the government’s planned on screwing me over if I snitch on them. If I were to help you, I’d be a dead man before long. You ain’t getting nothing out of me.”

“Really?” the younger man’s hazelnut brown eyes darkened considerably, and a gleeful smirk appeared on his face. “Allow me to try.”

-*-

Moonlight was now shining through the closed dust-caked window and the illusion of silence in the badly lit room seemed to stretch on indefinitely. Heavy, ragged breathing could faintly be heard in the darkest, dampest corner of the room and a nauseating smell gave itself off from the figure who was lying there, motionless but for the heaving of his chest. The wooden flooring didn’t do as much as squeak underneath the brown-eyed man’s boots as he carefully threaded towards the dirty glass pane that gave onto a deserted alley. He slid his bloodied weapon back in its sheath in one, smooth movement.

As the young man opened the window, he was interrupted by a soft croak. He twirled around and stared back at the silhouette who lay curled up on the hardwood floor, expression unreadable.

“You’re leaving without saying goodbye then?” Sebastian slurred, clutching his right arm to his chest.

The younger man huffed out a surprised laugh and held up a stained, crumpled scrap of paper in reponse. On it, a couple of hastily scribbled words could be discerned.

“Sorry, old man, ‘got a ship to catch. You’ve already given me what I came for.”

The smuggler nodded and coughed hackingly. He craned his neck (with apparent difficulty) to squint at the stranger. Lowering his head again, he spat out a clot of blood that landed at the welts of the man’s boots. “Well, good fucking riddance to you, kid!”

His visitor chuckled breathily, and saluted the man on the floor with his index and middle finger, his palm facing him. He walked backwards, put a hand on the window sill and jumped over it, landing quietly on the cobbles in the alley.

As he disappeared in the warren of narrow streets and back alleys that made up the outskirts of the city, the sound of a pistol firing a single bullet reverbated through the neighborhood. 

The gunshot could be heard clearly, almost as if it'd come from behind the grimy window the young man’d left wide open, before letting himself be engulfed by the darkness of the night.


	2. Chapter 2

Phil was bored. Completely, totally, utterly bored.

After having been informed of their victory on that Spanish silver convoy, he’d unexpectedly been sent to New Providence Island, a British colony in the the Bahamas. Upon arrival, the Queen’s counsel had ordered him to take up residence in an inn in Naussa’s city center and await further instructions.

Phil had been waiting for those for a little over two weeks now. Being so far away from all the action, all the planning of offensives and attacks that he couldn’t partake in, for fault of being stuck on the other side of the world: it was all starting to seriously get on his nerves. Here, he had nothing better to do than read the same few novels over and over again and populate his room with an unnecessarily great amount of houseplants.

Succulents and multi-colored cacti now littered the dusty window sill and potted pepermonia and calatheas were slowly taking over the sitting area (consisting of a worn-out, plaid patterned wing-back chair and a tiny, three-legged side table). When he’d caught himself wistfully staring at a philodendron (Yes, alright, maybe it was because of its name, but no-one needed to know that), he’d darted out of the store, knowing himself capable of splashing the whole of his monthly wages on the alluring greenery.

He was sitting on his bed, legs draped over the heavy duvet that covered the matress. He'd already shrugged off his stiff, navy blue coat earlier and hadn't even bothered with his wig: it was not like he would be seeing anyone that evening. He was now only in his leggings, breeches and waistcoat and relished in the comfortable feeling that always accompanied such a casual form of dress. His eyes were running over the by now familiar lines of the first chapter of Robinson Crusoe, when someone knocked on the door of his room. 

“Yes?”

A maid entered the room, bowed her head in his general direction and set a tray containing his dinner down on the cluttered desk, before hastily scurrying off again. As she closed the door behind her, Phil slid into his boots (which he'd plunked down next to the bed) and went to sit down at the desk. He ate in silence, his eyes still trained on the pages of his novel.

Dusk was creeping on and after Phil finished watering his plants with the water pitcher that he’d been brought, he lit the oil lamp closest to him. He read for a while, but was interrupted by a sudden flurry of air coming from behind him (most probably from the door), which made him instinctively reach for his sword.

He got up, and turned around as swiftly as he could manage.

Before him stood a young man, dressed elegantly enough to be able to pass for a nobleman, with a sardonic, lopsided smile stretched across his lips. His chocolate hair fell down his forehead in a messy tangle of curls and one of his flushed cheeks adorned a nasty looking cut. 

He looked dangerous, but Phil would be damned if he’d let himself be intimidated by the stranger’s tanned skin and obvious muscles that on him were nowhere to be found. The man just stared at him, his face obscured by the shadows the flickering flame of the oil lamp cast on the walls of the room.

“Step into the light,” Phil ordered, trying to make his voice go hard and grim like his uncle could. “Let me see your face.”

“I don’t think so,” the stranger answered, his eyes calmly examing his surroundings. His voice was soft and a hint of a southern English accent tinted his vowels. He arched his eyebrows at the sight of the sea of green that dominated the room, and, despite himself, Phil felt his cheeks flush a violent pink. “You have a lot of plants,” he observed casually, brushing his thumb against a tenacious leaf of Phil’s English ivy.

“Yes, I suppose I do,” Phil agreed easily enough. The man made no other move to engage in conversation, and Phil couldn’t help but ponder about the absurdity of the whole situation: an unknown man coming to his room after dark, refusing to make himself known, yet casually holding up a conversation about Phil’s houseplants, all whilst firmly gripping the pommel of his sword, a quaint glint in his eyes.

The man stiffened as Phil cleared his throat, his eyes flying up to the Phil’s face.

“Alright then, out with it! What is it that you want?”

The curly-haired man sighed, and when he spoke it was slowly, articulately, his posh-sounding accent now clearly shining through.

“What I want, _princeling_ ,” (he emphasized the insult by mockingly curtsying, holding one hand as if he were lifting the skirt of an imaginary dress), “is your head.”

-*-

Oh.

Well, the least he could say was that it had the advantage of being to the point.

“I’m not a prince,” Phil blurted out.

(Because yes Phil, _that_ was the part of that statement you were meant to focus on. Good job.)

The man rolled his eyes at him, and Phil felt the strong urge to roll his eyes at himself too.

"That doesn’t matter. There’s blue blood coursing through those veins of yours, Philip, and it’s going to be my pleasure to witness that when slicing them open.”

He continued staring at Phil levelly as he drew his sword and positioned himself: he set his feet in an L-shape, pressing the heels of his boots together. He bent his knees and raised his right hand slightly, curling his wrist, all without ever taking his eyes of Phil.

A shiver ran down Phil’s spine. In a flash, he assessed the situation, attempting to keep his cool. The other man was roughly as tall as he was, so their arm and stride lengths should be about the same. Judging by his stance and the ease with which his body comformed to the standard en guarde-position, he was by no means a novice in the domain of sword fighting. Phil hoped that they would be about evenly matched.

Only, the man was clearly left-handed. Phil had never in his life faced an opponent with a dominant hand other than the right one. He felt his pulse quicken and his mouth go dry. He immediately mirrored the brown-haired man’s position, right arm stretched out, yet still close enough to his body to be able to retract it in an instant.

For a single moment, their breathing was the only thing that could be heard in the room.

Then, the other man lashed out. He feigned an attack on Phil’s left side that he parried easily enough. Their blades collided with a loud, metallic clink and Phil took a step forward, making his weapon slide across the other man’s, attempting to disarm him. He failed and retreated, careful to hold the curly-haired man at a distance. He knew that if he were to expose his chest at any moment during this fight, he was done for. Adrenaline was coursing through his body, and even though every one of his instincts was screaming at him to run, to get out of there, he stubbornly stood his ground, like he was supposed to. 

Their swords crashed together again and again, and Phil felt his arms already growing tired from deflecting the heavy blows. His opponent was clearly much stronger than he was, and he knew that he could never win this fight if he had to rely solely on his inferior muscle strength. He had to act, and fast.

He made his next move, and avanced again, stretching out his right arm to get closer to the other’s chest. This was possibly the worst thing he could’ve done. The other man’s tensed up shoulders relaxed at once, and he gave Phil a rueful smile, before disarming him with one controlled swipe of his blade.

His weapon fell on the ground, the sound it made dulled by the thickness of the thready rug beneath their feet. Cold metal was now being pressed against the throbbing veins of his throat and both he and his assailant were panting heavily. The smirk that seemed to be etched on the brown-haired man’s face had disappeared, and as he was now standing in the flickering light of the oil lamp, Phil was finally able to see his eyes. His irises were that warm, rich tint of brown that Phil couldn’t help but associate with chocolate (even though he’d only ever had it once). They were dappled with tiny golden specks, thinly ringed with black an- and really shouldn’t be his priority right now.

He felt his blood rush through his skull, at such an alarmingly fast-paced rate that it was dizzying. His heart was thomping in his chest, every beat inching him closer to the end of his 25-year-long life. His body was trembling, and his knees were knocking together so frenetically he was afraid his legs would give out from under him.

“I’m sorry, Philip,” the other man said, an edge of genuine pity in his voice. “It’s nothing personal, I promise.”

Phil felt the sharp point of the stranger’s sword gently trace along his throat, as if deciding where to make the incision. He clenched his fists, his nails dugging in his palms. He closed his eyes.

Oh God, he was going to die. He was well and truly going to die.

-*-

Someone knocked on the door.

Once, pounding on the wood loudly, then twice more in rapid succession.

Phil let his eyelashes flutter open, feeling utterly confused. He wasn’t dead yet. Or if he was, the famed ‘afterlife’ was disturbingly similar to his reality right now.

“It’s open,” the brown-eyed young man grunted, annoyed.

Phil stared at him, uncomprehending, as a young boy pushed the door open. The kid entered the room, seeming unperturbed by the fact that the room he’d just walked into contained a man who seemed to be about two seconds away from slitting another’s throat. He held out a folded piece of paper, and the brown-eyed man snatched it from his hands, his sword still pressed to Phil’s throat. While the stranger’s eyes drifted towards the words on the paper, Phil shimmied his right foot backwards, painstaking inch by painstaking inch. Just as he’d almost reached his weapon (he could feel his toes skim its hilt), the other man muttered: “Oh no, you don’t.”

He tugged at Phil's forearm forcefully, unbalancing him and sending him crashing to the ground.

The fall brought him to his knees, and he could already feel bruises begin to bud where they had been bashed against the ground. A moment later, the man’s sword was resting in between his eyes, and his was kicked out of his reach.

Great. Absolutely fantastic.

The other man muttered something angrily, which was then followed by a colourful string of curses, and shoved the letter in the pocket of his trousers. He dug a dully shining silver shilling out of his pocket and threw it at the messenger, who promptly caught it mid-flight. The boy’s eyes glistened as he clutched the coin in his fist and he smiled from ear to ear, crooked teeth on full display.

“Thank you kindly, good sir.”

“Yeah, yeah whatever, off with you,” the brown-eyed man grumbled, making a shooing gesture with his free hand. The boy turned on his heels, and bolted out of the room, not even sparing Phil a second glance. Phil’s assailant sighed deeply, holding his middle and index finger against his temple, seeming exasperated. He looked down at him and rolled his eyes.

“Come on, up you get,” he huffed. He grabbed Phil’s arm again and hauled him upright easily, as if he weighed no more than a rag doll. Phil swayed on spot a little, his head feeling like it’d been replaced by a spinning top. The other man held him steady, pressing a warm hand to his shoulder.

As Phil still had absolutely no clue as to what exactly was happening, he looked at the man in front of him questioningly. In response, the curly-haired man rolled his eyes again and spun him around. His hot breath tickled the tiny, baby hairs on Phil’s neck, making him squirm. He wriggled his hands experimentally, but the stranger smacked them, ordering him to keep still. Suddenly, his wrists were being encircled by cold metal and a loud click indicated that he’d been handcuffed. The man behind him gagged him with a thick piece of cotton (a handkerchief?) and tightened it in such a way that Phil wouldn’t be able to do as much as squeak.

The stranger turned Phil around again, so that they were facing each other. “Follow me,” he said, glaring at Phil warningly. “And no funny business there, princeling. They said alive, but people survive losing a couple of fingers, don’t they?”

Phil nodded his agreement. The man’s fingers closed around Phil’s upper arm and he let himself be dragged out of the room, head still spinning and fuzzy-feeling. The details of this sudden change of plan remained a mystery to him, but hey, anything that didn’t end with him dying could be considered an improvement, right? 

_Right?_

-*-

Soon, they were walking through the streets of the city center.

Phil had no idea where he was being led. They were not taking a path that he recognised and seemed be making their way through every possible back alley in existence. The brown-haired man was gripping the flesh of Phil’s arm tightly. He was clearly not taking any risks, glancing at Phil from out of the corner of his eye every few steps. Even though Phil was in a position of weakness right now, the man seemed nervous. When his eyes weren’t resting on Phil, they were darting all around them, drinking in their surroundings.

When Phil fell even a little behind the man tugged at his arm impatiently, letting out an irritated sigh. Phil had half a mind to ask him if he really thought it was such a walk in the park, having to make your way through these dark, narrow streets, when your balance was already as poor as his was, and being forced to keep up with some obnoxious, annoying young(er) man, who had by all means and measures abducted you. He didn’t, of course. (Partly because he couldn’t, and partly because he realised angering the man that could very well end his life whenever he pleased might not be the smartest thing he’d ever do. It might be the last, though.) He decided to settle for an indignant glare and a huff that was quickly enough absorbed by the fabric the stranger’d tied around his head.

They were hurrying over yet another deserted marketplace when a small group of three city guards appeared, the muted shine of their armour clearly visible under the torches that’d been attached to the various buildings surrounding the square. He heard his abductor’s breath catch and saw him pull his hood over his head in a smooth, single-handed movement. The grip around his arm went ironclad, and even though Phil knew it would result in nothing, he still attempted to make himself heard through the gag, stomping his foot and shaking his head frenetically. Anything to catch the guards’ attention. The man next to him yanked at his arm harshly and dragged Phil with him. He tried to wriggle himself free, knocking his shoulder against the other man’s and continued his pleading mutterings for help (which, naturally, went unheard).

Slipping into another alley, they barely avoided collision with a noisy bunch of young men, and Phil felt their pace increase even more. He had a vague idea where he was being led and as he felt the salty smell of the ocean air grow stronger, it seemed that his suspicions were being confirmed.

They emerged from the alleyway they’d taken, and Phil felt grateful for the cobbles that’d replaced the coarse dirt of the back alleys that his assailant seemed to favor. This road was one he recognised; it was one that led directly to the docks, and was constantly swarming with people. This night was no exception: loud, drunken laughter was bubbling up from behind several pub windows and seamen and sailors were crowding the streets, hauling goods and merchandise from pillar to post. A scantily clad woman waved entincingly and winked at them from behind a poorly lit window. His abductor didn’t even give her the time of day, and Phil felt it was only right to avert his eyes. 

Irregardless, she was out of their line of sight again in a matter of seconds.

It seemed no-one was paying any attention to them, and the curly-haired man tugged at Phil’s arm again, making him stumble forward. The man held him upright and sighed impatiently. They glared at each other, eyes squinted, seemingly assessing one another. The other man arched his eyebrows disbelievingly (as if to say: ‘really, mate? Do you seriously believe you’re in a position to be difficult right now?’), before turning on his heels, forcing Phil to follow him. The dragging seemed to be turning into somewhat of a undesirable patern and Phil was honestly getting so tired of it. He considered resisting, just to be petty, but then he wasn’t really looking forward to having his shoulder forcefully dislocated. So he sighed silently and complied, trudging half-behind-half-next-to his assailant.

-*-

When they arrived at the pier Phil supposed they’d been headed for, they came to a halt in front of an imposing-looking Brig, its square-rigged masts looming high above their head. He felt temporary (and probably ill-founded) relief wash over him as he noticed the familiar blue-white-red of an Union Flag, which was hung at the top of the highest of the wooden spars. Its presence was more than a bit confusing to him.

What in Heaven’s name was going on here? Was this man his ally? If he was, he’d have a ruddy bit of explaining to do when this questionable endeavour of his was over, Phil’d make sure of that.

They made their way up the wooden brow that’d been let down from the starboard side of the ship. Two men where standing on the main deck. Both of them were rather short and had a mop of dark hair that appeared to have been cut by a child wielding a blunt knife. The heavier set man on Phil’s left quirked a friendly-enough-looking smile. The smaller, thin man beside him was holding an oil lamp and nodded curtly towards the pair of them.

“Dan,” he acknowledged.

“Is that him?” the other man piped up, eyeing Phil up curiously, the grin still playing on his lips.

Dan nodded wordlessly. He let go of Phil’s arm and shoved him towards the other men. Phil didn’t even have time to lose his balance, as Dan’s firm grip was instantly replaced by the gentler one of the man on his left. Even though he wasn’t (yet), he was, (judging by his bulging muscles), clearly capable of holding Phil even tighter than Dan’d done. Phil sighed into the handkerchief, waving all hopes of an escape goodbye. All he could do now was hope for a goddamn miracle.

“You’re expected in Adam’s cabin,” the skinny man said. "He said he’d explain, y’know, _him_.”

(He jutted out his index finger in Phil’s direction.)

Dan muttered something that sounded a suspicious lot like ‘he bloody better’, before nodding at the men, as if to dismiss them. For the first time, this had Phil wondering what kind of position Dan occupied on the ship exactly. He seemed accostumed to giving orders and have other execute them, if his confident stance was anything to go by, so Phil concluded Dan must be rather high up in the crew’s hierarchy here. For whatever reason, this surprised him.

“After you’re done with Cap'tain Clumsy here, you can go get some rest. Goodnight."

The man who was holding Phil’s arm replied with a cheery ‘goodnight’ and Dan strode off, heading towards the back of the ship, towards what Phil presumed was this Adam fellow’s cabin. The men walked Phil to the hatch on the back end of the main deck and made their way down the ladder that led to the hold. He briefly wondered if it would not’ve been easier for them to untie him before trying to get him down a ladder with his hands bound, but them seemed to only’ve come to that conclusion when they were already halfway down and’d decided to just keep going anyway, which is how Phil ended up hoisted over the muscled man’s shoulder like a sack of potatoes, for the whole of the journey down.

In the hold, the man plunked him down and took him by his arm again. Against one of the wooden pannels that walled in this part of the ship, a cage-like structure’d been placed, containing a patched-up hammock and a dented tin pot that’d seen better days. The cell was lit by a single, feebly flickering lamp that’d been attached to the ceiling. In a corner of it, between some leftover pieces of hay, Phil noticed the boady eyes of a rat glisten in the yellow light. The floor underneath his feet swayed gently with the movement of the billowing waves that crashed into the keel below.

The men walked Phil towards the cell and stopped right in front of the barred door. The small man holding the oil lamp looked over at him.

“Sorry, mate," he said gruffly. “We’re going to have to take away all your personal things, ‘m afraid them’s the capitain’s rules.”

Phil nodded resingedly and the man started patting him down, the lamp dangling back and forth in his other hand. He detached the empty holster of the gun Phil hadn’t had the time to take with him, which was still strapped to the belt around his waist and got Phil to step out of his boots to make sure he didn’t have any weapons concealed underneath their leather surface. He felt in the pockets of his breeches and only found a couple of stray, crinkled leaves that must’ve slipped in when Phil’d been tending to his plants last. The man’s hand crept up to the breast pocket of Phil’s waistcoat and unfastened the single button that kept it closed. He dug into it with two of his fingers and came out with a little, rectangular piece of paper.

It was a portrait of a girl.

She'd been painted with her long, chestnut blonde ringlets pinned up and braided in an intricate fashion. Some erring strands of her hair had escaped the coiffure, and cascaded down her neck, coming to rest between her shoulder blades. She was smiling and a soft, peachy blush beautified both of her cheeks. Her wide set eyes seemed to have a permanent twinkle in them and their dark color only served to accentuate the ivory pallor of her skin further. Around her neck hung an enamel necklace, adorned by a delicate pendant and in her hands she held a modest bouquet of apricot-yellow daffodils, that matched the cuffs and collar of her summer dress. She was, on all accounts, a sight for sore eyes.

Phil wasn’t sure how much of that the man holding the picture was currently able to see due to the crappy lighting in this part of the ship, but he himself’d studied it long enough to be able to discern every one of the smattered freckles dotting her body the artist’d managed to capture on the tiny piece of paper.

The girl’s name was Charlotte, and they were to be married come April of the following year. Her family had gifted him with the picture when they’d announced their engagement and he’d carried it with him ever since, because he’d been told that it’s what you were meant to do. And Phil was used to doing what he was meant to do, what was expected of him. 

He saw the man stare at the picture, face unreadable. He remained silent for a couple of seconds, seemingly frozen in place, before reaching for Phil’s breast pocket again to tuck it away in there.

The man holding Phil made a questioning noise, but the other man ignored him. Evidently done with searching Phil, the man opened the cell door and the other man manoeuvered him inside. He heard the clicking sound of his handcuffs’ lock being unlocked and fleetingly wondered where Dan’d found the time to slip the keys to it in either of the men’s hands in the short period of time they’d met up with them on the main deck. The man behind him untied his gag as well and Phil coughed to clear his throat.

A moment later, the door of his cell slammed shut and another metallic click indicated that he’d been locked inside. The two men turned on their heels and started making their way towards the front of the hold, where a door sat, half-concealed behind a pile of crates and barrels. It presumably led to the forecastle, where the crew’s quarters were located.

“G’night," the beefy man wished Phil over his shoulder, no hint of sarcasm apparent in his voice.

Then, he turned toward his friend. “What d’you that for, Sean?” he asked. “Give ‘im back the picture of ‘is girl?”

The thin man pinched the bridge of his nose and let out a deep sigh. “Listen, Mark, the poor sod’s never going to see the lass again, we should at least allow ‘im to keep the damned picture of her, no? ‘Cause that’s what’s decent people do, Mark, and that’s what I’m trying to be right now: a decent person.”

At this, Phil had to muffle a noise of surprise with the paw of his sleeve. His cheeks burned, as if he’d been slapped violently across the face. He had no idea why it came as such a surprise to him that those men weren’t actually planning on ever getting him home, but the final confirmation made his heart sink in his boots. Sean’d just clumsily snuffed out the last, little flame of hope that’d still been burning, buried deep down somewhere in Phil’s chest.

Mark’s reply died in his throat as he turned his head to catch another glimpse of Phil, who quickly tried to school his shaken expression in a more neutral, detached one. Judging by the pitying look Mark sent him, he concluded his attempt had been unsuccessful.

After that one mortifying moment, Mark spun on his heels. When the conversation started again, they seemed to have moved on from the subject. As the pair of them disappeared through the door, Mark’s deep, hilarated chuckles could be heard all throughout the hold. The laughter felt wrong, and the sound of it seemed to drill into Phil’s skull.

As the door finally fell shut behind them, Phil realised he was alone.

He sunk down on the floor, back pressed against the wooden panel behind him and burried his head in his knees, wrapping his arms tightly around his shins. The lamp above his head fluttered twice, weakly, before giving up the ghost. He swallowed thickly and screwed his burning eyes shut.

As his tear ducts spilled over, his carefully constructed facade broke and he cried. He wasn’t proud of it, but he did. He cried because he’d really wanted to have his mum hug him one last time and because he suddenly missed her so, so much. He cried because he’d never hear his dad call him ‘son’ again and that he would never get to attend his brother Martyn’s wedding, which was to be held in September.

He sobbed brokenly, promising himself that tomorrow he’d be as put together as ever, that he would not show this weakness to anyone. He’d stand upright, head held high, shoulders squared, his trembling bottom lip already a distant memory.

But tonight, tonight he just needed to be given the time to grieve, to mourn the loss of his old life. And as much as it pained him to admit it, he found himself whimpering the word ‘mum’ in the crook of his arm, tightening his arms around himself in a pathetic imitation of her calming, soothing hugs. He knew that it was indecent, that he, as a grown-up man, should exhibit such unequivocal displays of sorrow, but he couldn’t find it in himself to 'just man up’, like his dad would’ve told him to do if he’d been here.

He wept until it made his head hurt, his throat sore, until he couldn’t properly breathe through his nose anymore.

“Goodnight,” he wished the darkness in the hold.

The darkness kept quiet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: The ‘Union Flag’ that is mentioned in this chapter, is a maritime flag of Great Britain that was used from 1606 to 1801. The flag consists of the red cross of Saint George, patron saint of England, superimposed on the Saltire of Saint Andrew, patron saint of Scotland. Its official use came to an end in 1801 with the creation of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland.
> 
> Source: _Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia_ , ‘Flag of Great Britain’.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: I have made an edit in the first chapter of this story. Phil's title has been changed to Earl (apparently the British equivalent of Count), because Lancashire is a county, and not a duchy.  
> Please ignore this mistake, and thank you for reading!

As per usual, Dan entered the cabin without knocking.

Adam was used to it by now. He didn’t even bother looking up anymore.

“One of these days, Howell, I am going to be butt naked in here. Maybe that’ll finally teach you to bloody knock.”

Dan sunk down on the chair which stood in front of Adam’s desk. “I’m afraid that’s highly unlikely.”

“What? The naked part or the knocking part?”

“Oh, definitely the knocking part,” Dan answered, a smirk tugging at the corners of his lips.

Adam rolled his eyes and resumed dressing his quill with the small knife that he was holding in between his fingers. Silence fell over the room and he let it stretch on for a bit, knowing that as Dan was technically still his subordinate, he had no right to break it. This really only went to show that the official, rank-indicating titles Adam didn’t usually bother with could sometimes have their benefits.

(Like getting Dan Howell to actually keep quiet, which could be considered an accomplishment in and of itself.)

Dan was tapping the tip of his foot against the leg of his desk, staring at him willfully. There was no mistaking his intention: he was here for the explanation he’d been promised. Why had the liquidation job they’d planned together instead resulted in him practically shanghaiing the Earl?

A couple of minutes passed, during which the noise of the waves crashing into the hull of the ship down below remained the only sound in the otherwise quiet cabin. 

Dan had already taken to looking around the room, the fingers of his left hand drumming on his thigh. Outside, someone was drunkenly bringing them a rendition of some Folk song or other. The voice was brash and the tone was off, but in the dead of night like this, it had something almost charming to it. 

Adam saw Dan gently mouth along, his lips rounding around the vowels and pressing together soundlessly. Adam himself didn’t know the song, and it made him wonder where Dan could’ve picked it up. He tended to forget his crew had actually lived a different life before joining him. Maybe Dan’d learnt it in a place he used to call home or had been lulled asleep by it as a kiddie. Adam would probably never know.

When the voice’d died out and the singer’d moved off, Adam lay down both his quill and his knife.

“So, about that Earl fellow-" he began, the sound of his voice making Dan's eyes shoot back up to his face. "You know how the Spanish offered us a pretty penny to get rid of the guy?" said nothing. Adam hadn't expected him to. 

They’d discussed this before, given that the price the Spanish were willing to pay for Philip’s head was nothing short of extraordinary, and that Dan wasn’t used to ‘dealing’ with people this high up in the social hierarchy. Mostly, this side job of his consisted of shutting up some innkeeper who’d snitched on them, or threatening a rival pirate who was planning on attacking the same convoy they were. 

There had also been the odd case of him accepting jobs as a hitman, but he’d mostly abjured those after his last one’d almost got him caught. He’d only really managed to avoid getting nabbed by the skin of his teeth, that time. This job was an exception, one he’d only agreed to because he would be amply compensated for dirtying his hands. 

So yes, he knew about this. They’d been over it more times than he could count.

“Well,” Adam continued. “Turns out they decided that he would be more useful to them alive, rather than dead. In their communications, they tried to make it all appear very fair game, but I’m relatively certain they’re planning on using him as leverage to put pressure on his family."

A heavy blanket of silence fell over the room. It allowed Dan some time to comprehend the underlying meaning behind Adam’s words.

“By his family, do you mean they’d supposedly be able to influence Her Majesty, the Queen?"

Adam nodded gravely. Dan noticed he’d started tearing up half a piece of parchment that was lying around on his desk, like he couldn’t quite manage to keep his hands still. That'd always been a dead giveaway of Adam’s discomfort.

It was supposed to have been such an easy, straight-forward job, what with the fact that the Earl had neither been given additional security, nor had he even been made aware that a significant prize was resting on his head. Dan'd been almost insulted in the Earl’s stead by the lack of effort the government had put into guaranteeing the guy's protection. 

After finding out where they'd had him hide, the rest of the job could've been considered a piece of cake, at least by anyone capable of decently wielding a sword. Philip'd been good enough, but hopelessly out of practice, so he hadn't really stood much of a chance. Dan was fairly sure the Earl would've died before too long, (be it at Dan's hands or someone else's), had he stayed in Nassau for a handful of weeks longer. 

The information he’d just been trusted with, however, added a whole extra layer of complexity to the affair. As it turned out, honouring their set terms of engagement would entail committing at least some further degree of treason of The Crown, but deciding to not see them through could potentially end up being even more dangerous: it would include the possibility of immediate, armed retaliation over their significant breach of contract. Not to mention that they’d lose everything they’d been promised for getting involved in this mess of a situation in the first place.

“Adam,” Dan murmured. “What the hell have we gotten ourselves into?”

-*-

“Morning,” Mark’s voice boomed, growing steadily louder as he drew nearer to Phil’s cell. "Rise ‘n shine ‘n all that. There’s work to do, sleepy-head!”

Phil, ignoring the headache that he could already feel brewing in between his temples, grunted indistinctly in response and clambered out of his hammock, steadying himself on an iron bar of his cell. The constant swaying of the floor took some getting used to, and it looked like the intensity of the waves had only increased overnight.

He rubbed the sleep dust out of his eyes, yawning. His sluggish body was slowly but surely coming on stream, but his movements remained considerably slowed and his mind still felt foggy with sleep.

As a thin ray of sunshine shone through the half-open hatch, he could distinguish the outline of Mark’s body in the semidarkness. The burly man’s hands were fumbling with the lock of the barred door of the cell. He unlocked it with a swirly movement of his wrist, letting the door swing open. When its rusty hinges creaked, agonised, the screeching sound managed to snap Phil out of his sleep induced haze.

“What time is it?”

Mark shrugged. “Hell if I know! The sun’s come up though, so we’d better get a move on.”

Phil sighed dejectedly. It seemed like he would just have to resolve himself to working for the profit of the people who appeared to be unable to decide whether they wanted him dead or alive. 

He wondered if Mark’d been told why he hadn’t already been disposed of.

Maybe the people in charge were planning on putting him to further use on board, while they debated the pros and cons of his being here in the first place. 

Maybe, maybe they could even be kicking around the possibility of actually setting him free, having for some reason come to the conclusion that he was too bothersome or that keeping a prisoner of his rank could prove to be too risky.

He was well aware that in this case he was in all likelihood hoping against hope, but he’d always been told he was an obscenely optimistic person, always looking for silver linings, even in a sky packed with dark storm clouds.

It appeared as though yesterday night had been the exception that proved this rule.

Instead of asking Mark what was going on directly, (and risking to have the new little twinkle of hope in his stomach extinguished again), he asked: “Have we left port?”

“Yep,” Mark said. "Sean had us weigh anchor some time after you ’n Dan got on board.”

Oh. 

Well, it appeared that even if they decided to set him free, he wouldn’t be going anywhere that wasn’t this ship for a while.

Mark beckoned Phil and loosely wrapped his fingers around his wrist. “Let’s go find Sean ‘n see what he needs us for, yeah?”

When Phil kept silent, he walked them to the centre of the hold and had Phil climb the ladder first. The rungs of it were smooth and fitted well in his hands, but the constant movement of the boat would probably prove perilous, if not disastrous to Phil, whose balance was currently not dissimilar to a that of a foal.

Once they were both standing on the deck, (and Phil had, as predicted, managed to almost fall off the ladder leading to it twice), they made their way towards Sean. The deck was already bustling with activity this early in the morning, and they were soon swallowed up by the troop of men going about their daily business.

Because every last one of the sailors seemed to know Mark and find it necessary to exchange a couple of sentences with him, it took them nearly a quarter of an hour to get to the forecastle deck. Sean was standing at the top of the stairs leading to it, looking out over the deck below and yelling instructions whenever he thought necessary.

Phil was taken aback by how much more intimidating he looked in the harsh light of the morning sun than he had done in the early hours of the night. There was a certain natural authority to him, he looked like someone even Dan would obey without a second thought. For a man of such frail and short posture, this was no small feat. 

By just standing in front of them, barking out orders, he had, somehow, immediately succeeded in gaining Phil’s respect.

“Howdy, Mr. bos’n!” Mark greeted him, cheerily. Sean rolled his eyes at him, a faint, amused smile playing on his lips. 

“Mark,” he acknowledged. “Lord Lancashire.”

Phil, who hadn’t been expecting to be addressed in such a formal way, whipped his head up, surprised. The boatswain’s expression remained carefully blank, and he turned toward Mark again.

“I need to find him a job, yeah?” Sean asked. “Somethin’ to keep him busy?”

Mark had barely been given the time to voice a confirmation that he’d already swivelled around and tapped someone on the shoulder. 

“Jim, go ‘n get the man something to scrub the deck with,” he ordered.

Jim, a blue-eyed man with a friendly-looking face and a stubbled jaw, set down the bucket of tar he’d been holding and dashed off. He reappeared within less than a minute, carrying a different bucket and clutching a smooth, round piece of sandstone in his hands.

He shoved the items in Phil’s hands without a word and picked the tar back up, continuing to grease one of the thick stays that led back to the topmast. Phil stared at Jim’s back, surprised by the brusqueness of his actions. His eyes didn’t, however, fail to notice the flexing and shifting of the other man’s back muscles, visible through the thin fabric of his shirt. 

He thought that it did rather seem like everyone on this ship had been created for the specific purpose of taunting him, of mocking his barely-there muscles and his unnatural, awkward attitude whenever it came down to him having to play an authoritarian role.

“Well then,” Sean chided. “Better shake a leg, ‘s no use dawdling like this.”

Mark guided Phil, (who tottered behind him with quite some difficulty, as the bucket he was carrying was filled up to the brim with murky sea water and threatened to spill over with every step he took) towards the back end of the main deck and motioned for him to set down the things he was holding. He then got down on his knees, brandishing the stone in one of his hands, and reached out to tug the bucket closer.

He canted the pail Phil’d so painstakingly hauled around the ship and let some of the water pour out. The liquid spread out over the wooden slats of the deck and went even murkier in the places where it merged with dirt and sand. Seeping into the tips of Phil’s boots, it tinged the wet leather a darker shade of brown.

After righting the bucket again, Mark took the sandstone from Phil’s hand and slipped his thumb and little finger in two tiny cavities on both sides of the stone. He started scrubbing the wood with the stone, pressing down onto it with a part of his weight to exercise an additional pressure on the tool. He used the water to facilitate the movement of the stone on the coarse surface of the slats and gathered some sand to smooth the rough wood with.

Phil recognised the technique: he remembered the seamen on the ships he’d worked on executing these very same actions every morning. He’d been told it was done to help prevent splinters and to rid the wood of the filth that it had accumulated from being walked on by dozens and dozens of feet over the course of the previous day. 

He, as an officer, had of course never had to participate in that particular part of the running of the ship, but now he found himself kind of wishing he had. He wanted to know what he was in for. The ungraded sailors had certainly never made it look like a difficult task, but he figured his experience of the work might turn out to be quite different from theirs.

“Reckon you got the idea?” Mark asked, getting up and dropping the surprisingly light sandstone in Phil’s open palm. 

Nodding in silent agreement and getting on his knees, Phil grabbed the stone tightly and got to work.

Mark stayed for some time, presumably making sure everything was being done properly. Seeming satisfied, he walked off, leaving Phil to deal with the heavy, tiring work on his own. 

The sun, which was slowly making her way south, was burning through the silken fabric of his waistcoat and before long, sweat was pooling on his forehead and lower back. He felt all sticky and gross and his fingers were rapidly growing raw from all of the times he’d accidentally scraped them against the wood. Regardless, he carried on, not eager to find out how the punishments reserved for slacking off here were different from the ones on the ships he’d previously been on.

Unfortunately, the brainless work did give some of his invasive thoughts the opportunity to wriggle their way through the tiny cracks in the imaginary wall of repression he’d erected in his brain. 

Would his parents be worried if they didn’t get the letter he habitually sent them once every other week, despite him usually being halfway across the world? Would his brother’s eyes simply flit past his empty best man’s spot when standing at the altar and swearing to cherish his lovely fiancée for ever and ever? Would-

 _Shut up._

“Shut up, brain,” he muttered sternly to himself, “Just go back to the sodding scrubbing, will you?”

He scrubbed and scoured vigorously, attempting to drown the thoughts out that were attacking him in their thousands. However much he tried not to let it show, adopting a stoical approach to this whole thing was proving to be harder than expected.

It looked like the optimistic part of his brain had taken rather a hit lately.

Still, that tiny prickle of hope subsisted, stubbornly burning in his chest, keeping him from succumbing to the panic that was threatening to swallow him whole again. 

The prickle lived to be a persistent beacon in an entire ocean of uncertainty and anxiety, to be a haven of calmness and peace in the midst of a hurricane. It lived to help him breathe easier in moments like these, when it felt like his head was getting louder and louder, and everything was just a touch too bright, as if someone’d covered the sunlight in paint specifically made to give him a massive headache.

But most importantly, it lived to assure him that eventually, everything’d turn out alright.

(Put like that, the spark did sound cheesy as heck.)

(For Phil, its reassurances helped regardless.)

-*-

He wiped the sweat off his brow, and made use of the movement to stretch the sore muscles of his right arm. His whole body ached from the intensive work and he sighed tiredly. He couldn’t have been doing this for any longer than two hours and yet he felt about ready to collapse. Around him, everyone else just carried on working, laughing and joking like it was the easiest thing in the world.

After about another hour and a half, someone’s bare feet slid into his eyes’ periphery and stumbled to a halt right in front of him.

He let go of the stone and looked up. A young teenager was standing there, a plate and a rusty cup in his hands.

“Lunch,” the boy announced, simply, before handing Phil the things he was holding and hurrying off again.

Said ‘lunch’ consisted of a lump of dark bread, three thin slices of cheese and salted meat, two leaves of lettuce and some type of ale, which was contained in the reddened cup. Phil’s stomach growled at the scent of the warm bread and he decided to take a cautious bite. His teeth sunk in the dough and a delicious taste of roasted nuts and cereal filled his mouth. He continued eating and relished in the saltiness of the meat that did a pretty good job at disguising the taste of the cheese. 

(He threw the remaining slices of the stuff overboard, however, after he'd made sure no one was looking, because he really did _hate_ cheese.) 

When he’d gobbled up the remains of the food and he tilted the cup to get to the remains of the drink, his eye fell on Sean, who was approaching him at a leisurely pace. The man came closer and then stopped to observe the results of Phil’s work.

“Not bad, for a first time,” he commented.

Phil put down both his plate and his cup and looked up, as if he were giving Sean his undivided attention. He wasn’t sure of the protocol here, but he reasoned it was better to be safe than sorry. After all, it wasn’t like he was particularly looking forward to getting in trouble for being unknowingly impertinent.

“PJ needs help in the infirmary. I said you’d come. Go through that door,” he said, pointing at the door in question. "Then down the ladder. Infirmary’s the fourth door on the left.”

When Phil, (who was still busy absorbing the instructions and needed to be given a second to figure out which one of his hands was the left one), didn’t immediately get up, Sean cleared his throat.

In response, Phil looked hesitantly at the dirty dishes and his work supplies that were still scattered out over the deck, unsure if he could just leave them there. Sean followed his gaze and sighed. “I’ll get it taken care off. Go on then, chop chop!”

Phil got on his feet and off he went, through the instructed door, down another ladder. He ended up in a narrow hallway, lit by a single lamp that was projecting eerie shadows over the walls. “One, two,” he counted aloud, forming an ‘L’ with his left hand for good measure and to avoid any further confusion.

When he reached the fourth door, he knocked timidly. No-one answered. Instead, he heard the light thud of footsteps coming closer. The door was opened. In the frame appeared a tall, thin man, sporting some type of bizarre spectacles that had been attached behind his ears. He had a confused, half-smile etched on his face and his eyes fluttered all around him like agitated butterflies; never resting anywhere, continuously in motion. They flew from Phil’s nose to his eyes, his hair, the cuffs of his shirt, the tip of his boot.

“Er,” Phil began, uncertain, “You asked for help?”

“Did I?” the strange young man muttered.

There was a beat of silence.

“Oh yes, I suppose I must have,” he decided, seeming to recall something.

He turned around and walked back into the room, leaving the door wide open. Taking this as an invitation to enter, Phil followed him inside.

The room felt stuffy and overwhelming in a curious way.

Someone had pushed a set of bunkbeds against the back wall of the room and a single bed had been placed next to the door, taking up almost the entire width of the left wall. A tiny bit of light peeked through a window, which had been mostly covered up with patched-up, multi-coloured cloth. On the windowsill, a small flowerpot'd been set. The wilting monk’s cress inside it certainly looked like it’d seen better days.

On the right side of the cabin a work bench, overflowing with sizzling vials, books and all kinds of mysterious metal instruments and bottles, had been erected. Some planks'd been attached to the wall and contained what Phil assumed to be heavy medical encyclopaedias. The room smelled strongly of spices and herbs and of whatever fumes were currently escaping from the flasks and simmering pots, occupying nearly every available surface.

Alright. Even though the infirmary was creepy as heck, at least Phil’d managed to get to the right place. With his sense of direction, this job could’ve got off to a considerably worse start.

The man, (‘PJ’, Phil reminded himself), had gone back over to the workbench and had started stirring in a bowl, eyes on one of the pieces of parchment that was sprawled out over his workbench. He seemed to have forgotten all about Phil already.

Suddenly, a loud, pained croak interrupted his muttering. Phil gasped, caught off guard by the noise and spun around. His eyes landed on the single bed, where, underneath the sheets, a human-like lump continued to make agonised, muffled vocalizations. “Wha-” he began to ask, but PJ had already turned around to press his index finger to his lips.

Quiet. Okay, yeah, he could do that.

_But what on earth was going on?_

PJ came closer to him and Phil shifted under his gaze, feeling uncomfortable at having become the centre of PJ’s attention. “I need to go get some additional supplies," he spoke, softly. 

“I’m trusting you with Kyle,” he continued, motioning towards the wrapped-up silhouette with his chin.

Phil gulped. PJ smiled in what Phil was supposed to be a reassuring manner and patted his shoulder once. “It’ll be okay,” he said. “Just rub a humid towel over his forehead every once in a while, and try to get him to calm down.” 

There was a pause. 

“Freaking out will only make his body deteriorate faster.”

Then he winked, which seemed horribly inappropriate considering the current situation, and opened the door.

Before closing it behind himself, he called out to Phil: “Good luck, Philip!”

Phil soughed.

He rubbed his hands warily over his face and in response, the Kyle-shaped lump groaned loudly. The sudden, muffled sound of his fists making contact with the rough wood of the wall made Phil jump. 

After having picked up the single oil lamp that’d been put on the workbench, Phil shuffled towards the bed and sat down on the edge of the chair that’d been placed by Kyle’s bedside. He noticed that on a crate next to the headboard, a beautiful book had been left. Its leather cover was richly decorated with a pattern of leaves and a variety of geometrical forms and the metal claps glistened, reflecting the light of the lamp he’d set down beside it. He ran his hand over the cover and the bumps of the relief words that’d been printed on it, marvelling at the craftsmanship that’d undoubtedly been needed to produce it.

Curious, he carefully undid the clasps and opened the book to the very first page. On the end sheet, which had been glued to the backside of the cover, someone’s had written that the book was property of a certain Dr. K. O’Donnell.

He turned some of the pages and skimmed them, eyes falling on the detailed sketches and delicate aquarelles of exotic animals and vegetation. Underneath the drawings, Latin names clarified the specific classification of the animal or plant they represented, and at the bottom of the page, tables had been drawn up, filled with numerical data. The book looked extremely well taken care of, the pages neither dog-eared nor smudged in any way, and Phil gently placed it back on the crate, wisely concluding that him holding that book for any longer was simply a disaster waiting to happen.

He grabbed a towel that’d been soaking in a bucket of clean water next to the bed.

“Kyle?” he tried, softly. “Kyle, could you turn around for me, please?”

There was no answer, but the constant noise stopped short and was instead replaced by quick, heavy breaths. Phil noticed the twitching in both Kyle’s fabric covered legs and let his hand ghost over them, unsure as how to proceed. 

Were the muscles in Kyle’s legs damaged and could he not control them or something? Was that why they were moving?

Before Phil could figure out the answer to his question, the sheets were being kicked from Kyle’s body. The man started screaming bloody murder, trying to get the restraining material off him, punching and kicking and wriggling with desperate fervour. The sheets were quickly thrown off the bed by his writhing body and Kyle curled up on the bare mattress, his cries having been reduced to whimpers.

Phil was still sitting at his bedside, frozen in place. He barely dared to breathe, in fear of setting off another screaming fit and waited, feeling the wetness of the towel travel down his wrist and leak onto the cuffs and the insides of the sleeves of his shirt. 

Kyle now lay entirely still, crunched up in a foetal position, shrunken back on the bed. He was crushing his limbs tightly together and pressed his mouth against his chest, attempting to make himself as small as humanly possible. The mumbling didn’t stop.

Phil was seriously considering whether he would not just risk being punished if it meant he didn’t have to spend another second here. He was in the midst of standing up when a little choked off sob interrupted the pitiful whimpering and, despite himself, he felt the sound tug at his heartstrings.

“Kyle?” Phil prompted again, cautiously.

Against all expectations, the man actually turned around this time. “Light,” he groaned, voice having gone raw from the screaming. “Gone.” He pressed a pillow to his face, and repeated again: “Light. Hurts. _Please_.”

At loss for what else to do, Phil ended up carrying the lamp back to the workbench. He waited for Kyle to acknowledge the movement, but when the man kept quiet, he sat down on the chair again and reached for the towel to wring it dry. From what he could tell in the dimness of this part of the room, Kyle was still lying on his side, facing him.

He’d started mumbling again.

Phil listened closely, but he could make neither head nor tail from what Kyle was saying. There were a couple of words that he managed to make out, but they appeared to be completely unrelated to each other. The vast majority of them remained incomprehensible gibberish. 

As Kyle went on and on, Phil slowly leaned in closer. He tried to avoid making any brusque movements, (which could potentially alarm Kyle), and after what felt like ages, managed to press the towel to the sick man’s forehead. Kyle didn’t move away, or in any other way react to the fabric’s presence. He simply made a small noise of contentment and carried on.

When one of Phil’s fingertips accidentally made contact with Kyle’s skin, he had to keep himself from hissing. The unnatural heat was not entirely unexpected, yet it shocked Phil into fully realising how serious Kyle’s condition actually was. The man’s body was positively burning up, and Phil had heard the prognosis for fevers this severe looked anything but good.

With these thoughts in the back of his mind, he felt a wave of pity wash over him. He continued rubbing the towel over Kyle’s forehead, making small, humming noises as if to show him that he was still listening.

When he heard the door open, he looked up. PJ was standing in the doorway, his arms filled with at least a dozen different leaves and stems. He smiled at Phil and made his way to the other side of the room, where he dumped everything on the workbench. Sensing his imminent dismissal, Phil re-humidified the towel with the water in the bucket and lay it over Kyle’s forehead, before standing up.

“Er, thanks,” PJ said distractedly, busy sorting through the plants he’d brought back.

When Phil stayed put, unsure on whether he’d just been given permission to leave, PJ turned around and made a vague movement with his left hand. “Dismissed, I s’ppose. You’re free to go, mate.”

(Phil didn’t know if PJ could hear the irony behind that statement.)

(Because he himself certainly could.) 


End file.
